Faithful Paradox

This morning, as my son walked out the door my husband asked him, “are you doing OK?“ His answer was, “I’m not doing well today. I’m just really sad, but I need to go.“

As he left for the day, my heart broke for him. Today, he is stepping into a space where no one will know the sorrow he still endures. No one will see his pain. He will show up and do what he must because it is what is expected and demanded of him in this life. Isn’t that a picture of the reality of grief? “You doing OK?“ “No I’m not, but I need to go.”

Many days, this world requires the one who walks with sorrow to both set aside and press forward; to silo-off and persist. I initially wrote this for one of my sons and while this was not necessarily a letter originally written for others, there were many who came to mind as I wrote, who walk with pain and sorrow. I pray you will know that you are seen by a God who deeply loves you.

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Dear One,

As I saw you today, as you walked out the door, I could sense the heaviness of the day ahead of you weighing on your heart. I saw that you long for rest, you longed to pause, you long for the weight to lift; for comfort. Yet the demands of what today requires seems more pressing than your own needs.

You yearn for rest. I know you desire to find your rest in Christ, yet I also see the confusion as you ask, “What does that even mean?” I know you long to obey and long to delight in what the Lord has given. I know you rest in the work he finished for you on the cross. I also know you wish that it meant today, you could rest your emotions, your mind, your heart, and your body. 

I see the courage that it takes for you to show up day after day. I see the energy required for you to anticipate a new day, a new event. I see how the anticipation leaves you feeling drained before you even step into that moment. I see how much stamina it takes for you to put one foot in front of the other.

I see that your body bears the weight of sorrow. I know pieces of you seem to fail. Parts become painful and broken, they don’t function as they were intended because your body and brain don’t know how to protect you as you carry the weight of all you endure, so they shut down or turn on overdrive. What you endure is not just an emotional experience; it’s visceral as well.

I see the cruelty of life as it marches on, oblivious to your needs and desires. It continues to require much of you and seems completely unaware of your exhaustion. I see the weariness in your eyes yet the way you faithfully persevere. I recognize that you carry a heavy weight, despite the smile on your face.

I see your battle for joy. I see the way that you fight to trust the promises of the Lord, even though many days, those seem to offer a little comfort in your present pain. I see you faithfully enduring, knowing one day it will all be made right. I also see the discouragement of knowing that one day has not yet come. 

I see your faithfulness. I see that you press on for the hope that is in front of you even as your heart is tethered to sorrow or pain. I see you fighting for faith. I see you fighting to believe in the goodness of God. I see you reaching for the promise of what is to come even as you live with the sorrow of what is now.

I know that you recognize the reason you endure, the reason that you walk faithfully day after day is because of the Lord‘s mercy. You know he has not abandoned you. His mercies are new every morning. I also recognize that his mercy, at times, does not feel like enough. His mercy helps you endure, yet you still bear the weight of your pain day after day. 

There are days that you question, “How am I going to do this again?” Many days feel like they demand far more energy than what you have left. I know the weariness as you lay down at night with a certain dread held for tomorrow; waking up to do it all over again. You know God will help you survive for another day, but what you long for is not simply survival. You wonder if you’ll ever again thrive or is this simply life now?

I see the sorrow that you endure when the weight of sadness rears its head during moments in time. When celebrations scream the loss. When holidays no longer feel full. When you can no longer participate in the ways that used to fill you. When significant days are marked by sorrow; knowing this world is not as it ought to be.

I know that tears still flow when no one is looking. I know that you trust God and yet you also wonder how this story could ever be good. You question how you’re going to survive this pain. I know that you are tired of the journey. I know you are tired of feeling like you are needy and broken. I know you are tired of the tears. I know you wish that God had chosen a different way even as you labor to submit your heart to his will.

There are some who misunderstand you, who think that because you are smiling, because you are faithful and persevering, they assume that your pain is resolved. There are some who consider only what is seen on the surface but miss the heart that still aches. 

I know you feel the weight of the questions that are often unspoken. “It’s been six months… It’s been three years… How long will they grieve? How long will they carry the sorrow? Shouldn’t they be over it by now? Shouldn’t they be used to this? Aren’t you better now?” I hear your own heart’s response. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to answer that question. I am not actually sure that I will ever just ‘get over it.’” You don’t know because you don’t actually know how or what healing will look like. You believe that God will help you heal, but as you heal, your understanding of healing changes as well.

I see you, griever, as the person that you are becoming. I see those parts of you that were shaved off, made less jagged by the suffering you endure. I see a softness to you now that is tender and beautiful. I also see the pieces of you that changed. I know there are parts of you that seem to be lost and you wonder if they will ever be found again. You miss some of those pieces. There are parts that feel foreign, even to yourself. As you heal, you are growing into a new person and that is beautiful… but it’s also painful. Sometimes the transformation feels like more loss, more grief, even as you emerge more beautiful yet fragile.

Dear sufferer, you are seen in your pain. You are seen and known by a God who loves you. He is with you in your sorrow and your pain. He sees your courage, your faithfulness, your perseverance. He sees you pressing forward. You are seen by a God who takes the time to collect every tear that you’ve ever shed and he stores them (Psalm 56:8). I think he does this so that one day, he can show you how he has redeemed every single one of those tears.

You are seen by a God who is not indifferent to your pain, but actually deeply understands what it is to endure the sorrows and pains of this world. You are seen by a God who has promised to help you endure. Your God is full of compassion and he pours that out on you. You are seen by a God who is not wasting even the tiniest moment of your pain. You are loved deeply. You are not alone.

Even though you may ask, “How long, oh Lord?” Even though you may feel as if God has forgotten you. Even though you may question, “How much more Lord?” Even though you may sit in confusion. Even though you wonder, “Do you even care about my desires?” Even though your exhaustion may overwhelm you, take heart dear one. The Lord does not disdain you. He sees you and I think his answer to your questions must be something like, “Just a little longer, beloved. Hold on just a little longer.”

Dear one who walks with sorrow, “wait a little longer” (Rev 6:11). God does not expect you to overcome. He simply asks you to hold on to him, trust him as he walks with you through this treacherous valley. Hold on. Wait a little longer.